#god loves you but not enough to save you - HELEN AND CASSANDRA | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

panismightier · 5 years ago

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I took a Greek stories class this semester and the final project was pretty much "whatever, just run it by me,” so at 1:30 AM I learned what a heroic crown of sonnets is (fifteen sonnets, each starting with the line the one before it ended with, and with the final sonnet comprised of the first lines of the preceeding fourteen) and e-mailed my professor that I was gonna do one about the Trojan war with each stanza from the perspective of a character involved. To my moderate surprise, I actually successfully did that, and now present it to you below the cut:

AGAMEMNON She didn’t deserve the fate this war has brought. My daughter, Iphigenia, brought t’ an end— I hide my face, for I can bear it not. O, why am I the one the gods must rend? For what? For war? For trauma more to come? Must I lead the Argives to their death? All clamoring to fight, while I feel numb, Knowing I myself have stopped her breath. I lead because I know that I must do The deed for my dishonored brother’s wife. That wretched Paris who did she there woo, He’s the cause of all the Argives’ strife. Yet I’m the one who brought this weight of tons, Her death, and that of fathers, brothers, sons.

IPHIGENIA My death, and that of fathers, brothers, sons: That is what it costs to bring us peace. If I die, the war’s already done, A victory divinely assured for Greece. So I am come to take down Ilion, And bring salvation for all those I love. For this cause, I know a million Of Greeks would die, and I am not above That sacrifice. So weep not, Father, dear; This is my choice as much as it is yours. I swear, though gone, my memory is here, So get to Troy with winds set on your course. Though, some dishonor does come with my lot: The pain and suffering Greece on Troy has wrought.

MENELAOS The pain and suffering Greece on Troy has wrought Is justice in the very clearest sense; He stole my wife from my own bed and ought To suffer; for that is the consequence. My fellows swore an oath when we were wed That they’d defend our marriage with their lives, And so for th’ sake of honor, they have bled, So many dying ‘neath the Trojan’s knives. I am not proud of all that we have lost, But ‘tis a sacrifice that’s worth to make. The hospitality that Paris tossed Aside—for that, our vengeance we must take. A thousand cries on a thousand dying tongues— One misdeed for a thousand other ones.

ODYSSEUS One misdeed for a thousand other ones— Is that the justice that our leaders seek? In the city where the Scamander runs, Both sides dwindle, everything looks bleak. We’ve not the leaders Greece deserves to see. Agamemnon stumbles, and the rest Cannot make up for his weakness; he must be Strong enough to pass this awful test. A leader, too, though, I’m not free of guilt. My weakness too does weaken noble Greece. I tried to cheat and not to hold this hilt, And at whatever cost, I hope for peace. The wind’s now lifted, but our sails rent. The Greeks, victorious, are not innocent.

PHILOCTETES The Greeks, victorious, are not innocent. Abandoned me on foreign shores—for what? For pain, a bite; although I never meant To hurt my Greece, I’m punished for a cut. And now they want me back again—and why? For Heracles’ bow they need to end the war, Or so did some-or-other prophesy. The wound of betrayal still i’ my heel is sore, And yet comes Odysseus, here to beg me back With Neoptolemus, Achilles’ son— As though his father does dishonor lack. With me, I know the war’s already won. But even so, I see it as it stands: The blood of noble men is on their hands.

PATROCLUS The blood of noble men is on our hands. I am a soldier, yes, but yet I feel I’ the march on Troy, our Myrmidons in bands, That I may be a better suit to heal. Achilles sulks in ‘s tent, mistreated by That Agamemnon’s selfish bitterness. He clings to pride while people ‘round him die— I hate it, but I love him nonetheless. Achilles, love, let go and help our men; If not, let me have something else to do. I’ll strap your armor on, go out, and then— Your image must mean much for those you slew. And yet I sense ‘f to battle I am sent, Good Hector is disgraced by grief-struck bent.

ACHILLES Good Hector is disgraced by grief-struck bent Because he took from me my dearest love. I said that he bore me no ill-intent Until Patroclus died beneath his glove. Therefore I do not hold it as a wrong That I should, in revenge, then end his life. They love him; “Troy’s great soldier,” sing his song, Yet ‘s love for Troy o’ershadows love for ‘s wife. This war, at first, was one I wouldn’t fight; My mother hid me ‘hind the guise of a gown. So ‘spite my oath, each battle is a plight To follow Agamemnon’s crooked crown. I feel no shame to say it’s by my hand That Priam’s ‘prived of sons on his own land.

PRIAM That I am ‘prived of sons on my own land Is something that I never did deserve. My youngest from the city of Troy I banned, Although, to kill the boy, none had the nerve. Is this my fault? Should I have been more sure That torch in my wife’s womb was well burnt out? But now that it is done, there is no cure; There’s only grief that’s seeped in poison doubt. Good Hector, boy, I’m sorry that I fail. You were the best of us and still I let Achilles drag you ‘round in ‘s raging rail. Your brother, Paris, comes, and so we get A countless army banging at our door— For Helen’s sake they fight this bloody war.

CLYTEMNESTRA For Helen’s sake they fight this bloody war. So what of Helen? Why is she the one That all these Argives stir themselves up for? They kill my daughter; what, then, have I won? So blame me, if you’d like, for Argos’ fate. Blame me for Aegisthus, all my sin Call me cursèd villainess, just wait! I will not let this world that hates me win. My husband brings back maids from Trojan shores— Cassandra, prophetess, though that means naught— Yet I break chastity, no longer yours, And I’m the one who ‘n evil has been caught. I kill for me, and not for Helen. Scorn That maiden of beauty from her husband torn.

PARIS That maiden of beauty from her husband torn Is my reward, and justly did I earn That prize from goddesses with apple borne Who came to ask my judgement. They did yearn All after that fruit for the fairest maid— Though th’ fairest maid of men is now my own. Fair Aphrodite best my ‘pinion swayed, But I knew not for my wife war would be sown. Hospitality’s just words we mince. I took the prize she promisèd to me. I went from lowly shepherd to a prince And for that I will never sorry be. I didn’t know she’d bring ships to our shore; They must put forth their lives for th’oath they swore.

THETIS He must put forth his life for th’ oath he swore. My seventh child, the first one to survive. My test of immortality he bore Long enough that Peleus let him thrive. But he’s so fragile—fearsome, mortal still. I cannot let my son sail off and fight— They prophesy he won’t be saved by ‘s skill Although he’ll be the Grecian army’s light. I’ll hide him away, do all I can to save Him from the fate I know he’ll meet one day. My stubborn son knows not how to behave. His oath, and not my love, will bring him sway, And he will leave, his body to be torn— O, would that Helen never had been born!

HELEN O, would that Helen never had been born! My name is slandered, though I never did A thing against the man to whom I’m sworn, All because fair Cypris won some bid. I’m beautiful, and beauty is my curse. I’m lusted after, grabbed at, kidnapped, raped— My own beauty is all for the worse. Some stories say to Egypt I escaped, But even there, pursued by th’ very king! There is no ‘scape until my Menelaus Returns t’ remind me I am not some thing. My mind needs freedom from tormenting chaos. But ‘cause they call me, Helen, guiding light, Neither side feels any shame to fight.

HECTOR Neither side feels any shame to fight, Because in battle, there’s no shame to find. Unless he turns and tucks his tail in fright, Every soldier’s strong in heart and mind. They call me th’ strongest warrior in Troy— That’s a title I will not deny. Although it pains me t’ leave behind my boy, To leave in war is the best way to die. I’ve fought the strongest Greeks they say there are, Though they say too to one man I could lose: Achilles, son of Peleus, won’t spar— I hear he’s nursing his bold ego’s bruise. Although this war on Troy is surely a blight, I’m convinced that this is what is right.

APHRODITE All convinced that this is what is right, The Greeks and Trojans tear each other down. Alliances and oaths do tie them tight; In prophesies and ego trips they’ll drown. I caused this, maybe; I can take some blame For tempting that young shepherd with a girl, But ‘t was his choice, his theft, that brought this flame Upon Troy’s walls, that burning, killing whirl. There’s countless one could blame for how this goes: Me, or Paris, Menelaus, Zeus, Achilles’ rage, Patroclus in his clothes, The very Fates refusing them a truce. Fair Helen, though, is blameless, or she ought. She didn’t deserve the fate this war has brought.

CHORUS of Greek soldiers She didn’t deserve the fate this war has brought: Her death, and that of fathers, brothers, sons. The pain and suffering Greece on Troy has wrought— One misdeed for a thousand other ones. The Greeks, victorious, are not innocent; The blood of noble men is on our hands: Good Hector was disgraced by grief-struck bent, And Priam ‘prived of sons on his own land. For Helen’s sake we fight this bloody war, That maiden of beauty from her husband torn. We must put forth our lives for th’ oath we swore— O, would that Helen never had been born! Neither side feels any shame to fight, All convinced that this is what is right.

#my writing #poetry #Greek mythology #Trojan war #the Iliad #look at me actually using those first five tags so people actually see this #Look at this shit y'all it took me so long #bloop #crossing my fingers the formatting sticks and also expect to see this self-reblogged for like the next month unless it really takes off #because I LIKE it and I want people to SEE it #I already got a captive audience to listen to me talk about the Trojan war for 40 entire minutes (not long enough tbh)#and they stayed interested that long!! it was wild #I get why people become professors now

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words-writ-in-starlight · 6 years ago

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FIC PROMPTS. YOU KNOW THE THING. ÉTIENNE CHASING CHELSEA AROUND THE WORLD, AND ALL THE DESPERATE MEETINGS ALONG THE WAY. OR ANYTHING WITH CHELSEA, AT ALL.

I BET YOU THOUGHT I FORGOT ABOUT THIS ASK! THINK AGAIN MOTHERFUCKERS, I COME WITH CHELSEA ANGST!

over hill, over dale, over valley and vale

There’s a lot to be said for living inFairyland, in Chelsea’s opinion. DukeTorquill is very nice—partly, she suspects, because he views all of Sir Daye’sstrays as a sort of motley crew of grandchildren—even if his wife is strangeand distant even in her kindness. Pixiesare a vastly more interesting pest than mice, the Hobs in the kitchen are alltoo game to allow or even encourageChelsea to steal snacks whenever she’s interested, and for the first time inher life, Chelsea has friends near her own age. Quentin, and through Quentin Raj, and Karen, and sometimes evenCassandra or Helen. Not many friends,and spread across seven or eight years in age, but there are nights whenChelsea feels almost dizzy with the embarrassment of riches.

Then there are days like this one, whereChelsea wishes Fairyland had left her well alone until the day she died ahappily ignorant human death.

Chelsea sucked in a breath and it tasted like fire, and ittasted like smoke, and it tasted like screaming, and then—yes, God, yes, thank you, a doorout of this hell, she knew where it would take her, it would take her toSeattle—

She stumbled into ice and snow, and there was a voice shoutingfor her to listen, for her to breathe, just for a moment, and then—

The stars overhead were unfamiliar, and there was an invisiblefist around her spine, around her heart, holding her in place, and her skin wasbeing sanded away to reveal something new and strange, and there was still somuch screaming—anything to be out of this place where everything hurt and shewas a prisoner, anything, anywhere would be better, anywhere but—

There was a man with green eyes and a startled expression, andthen there was fire, and then—

Chelsea’s eyes snap open, and sheflinches back so hard her head cracks into the stone wall. Her hands fly out, trying to ward off theflames, grabbing for the intangible somethingthat makes up the world, but—

Hands lowering slowly, Chelsea blinks,gulping in a vast breath, then another, and another, as she feels her heartrace. Right. Of course. She’s at Shadowed Hills, the dim shapes around her focusing into herroom as her eyes remember what seeing feels like. There are her books, and her desk, and herwardrobe.

There’s no glittering door in front ofher.

It’s a good thing. It’s safety. It’s the surest sign in the world she’ll never be swept away again.

It makes Chelsea’s gut twist up with fearuntil she’s sure she’s about to be sick.

Chelsea pulls her legs up to her chestand wraps both arms tight around them, like a little kid afraid of thedark. Chelsea had never been afraid ofthe dark—even as a child, she had been able to see through the dim,light-polluted Berkley night with ease, and it had felt safe and comforting,nothing like the punishing whipcrack of sunrise. She thinks she might be learning to be afraidnow, despite her fine new night vision.

At very least, her time in Duchess Riordan’scare taught her well and truly to be afraid of being alone.

“I want my dad,” she whispers into herknees.

It’s a strange impulse. Her dad—Etienne—is still nearly astranger. She doesn’t know him, notreally. He’s a knight, for God’s sake, he fights with a sword. But—

But she also knows him better than she’sever known anyone, because the first time she met him, he caught her shakingshoulders in his hands and said that he would never leave her again, and shehad looked into his eyes and known hewas telling the truth.

It went like this.

Chelsea was sure she was going to die,alone in a strange world, surrounded by people who didn’t even care enough tohate her. She wonders, now, if SirDaye—Toby, which Chelsea is still adjusting to—knows how utterly fortunate sheis, that most of her enemies hate herwith every fiber of her being. It wasterrifying, gut-wrenching, to know that she was going to die, her body left onthe heather or thrown over the cliffs, and no one who cared would ever know,and no one who knew would ever care, except that their crowbar to pry open thewalls of the world had finally given out.

And worse than that, she was going to diein pain, because the blinding painthat had started in her head was lancing down her neck, burning along hernerves like it was trying to chew through her bones. The longer she held open the gate, the moreit hurt—and she couldn’t do anything else, she couldn’t, because there was an unbreakable grip around her spineand she couldn’t run, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything but try to standhere and not die.

When the fight started, she could barelysee past the white-static haze drifting over her vision, popping here and therewith black starbursts. There wasscreaming, barely distinguishable from the noise in Chelsea’s ears. It had started as a pitchy hum, then aringing, and now it was as if she was standing in a high wind, just an endlessroaring that ebbed every once in a while to remind her that her heart reallywas beating that fast.

Someone was rushing toward her. Fine. Chelsea couldn’t see, couldn’t move, just gasped out a wheezing, sobbingbreath and tried to straighten under the weight of the pain. The gate, the gate, she had to hold up thegate—

“Chelsea!”

That was what had finally gotten herattention, brought her back into her body from the elsewhere she had started todrift toward. If Riordan knew her name,Chelsea had never seen any evidence of that fact. The only people who had shouted her name werethe other changeling, and the man with her, and this was neither of them.

Turning her head hurt more than anythingelse Chelsea had ever done.

There was a man moving toward her, movingfast, and he looked like he’d been beaten to hell and back but he bulledthrough one of the invisible soldiers without so much as a pause.

“Chelsea!” he repeated, more sharply, andthen he was in front of her. He wastall, and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and sharply pointed ears and eyes asbright as freshly minted pennies. “Chelsea, breathe,” he said. There was a strange accent clinging to his deep voice, but his wordswere kind, and he caught her shoulder when she wavered on her feet.

“Who—are—you,” Chelsea forced out, oneword at a time, and his face twisted into something between grief and blind,homicidal rage.

“My name is Etienne,” he said, and oh,then his hands were brushing her hair out of her face, careful and unsure, butthe touch left a small path of painlessness, for a brief moment. “I’m—I’m your father.”

“It hurts,” Chelsea gasped, feeling tearsgather in her eyes again. The ragesettled more fully onto his face. “It—Ithurts.”

“I know it does, Chelsea,” the man—her father—said. “I’m going to help you hold open thegate. Just look at me. You’re doing wonderfully.”

“I don’t want to keep it open anymore,”she said, tipping over fully into crying. “It hurts, I—I don’t want to die, I don’t--”

“You are not going to die,” her father said fiercely, cupping her face inhis hands and catching her eyes with his own. Her eyes, his eyes. It was funny,to a hysterical part of Chelsea’s brain, but laughing was one too many thingsto consider doing right now. “I am goingto get you out of this, Chelsea. Youhave my word.”

“Please don’t leave me,” Chelsea begged,and she knew she was begging, and she didn’t care, because fuck, at least if he stayed, she wouldn’t die alone. “Please, please, I can’t—I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” Her father was still cradling her face inboth hands, and he looked every inch the knight of the Fair Folk, even throughthe bruises and blood—wild, and terrible, and honest. “Chelsea, you can do this. I am going to get you out of this, but weneed that gate back to the mortal world to do it. Chelsea—Chelsea, look at me, open your eyes.”

Were they closed? Chelsea forced them open, and it took far toolong for his face to resolve. All shecould see was his eyes, bright as copper, and vicious with determination.

“Listen to me, Chelsea,” he said, wipingthe tears from her face with his thumbs. “I am so sorry, that I wasn’t there for you. We should have had all these years together,and we didn’t, and I’m sorry. But I giveyou my word, on oak and ash and thornand rowan and anything else you want me to swear on, that I am not leaving younow. Do you believe me?”

And God save her—oak and ash and thornand rowan save her—she did.

“Yes,” she whispered. Her voice sounded like a child’s when shespoke again. “Daddy? What do I do?”

“You breathe,” he said, sounding close totears himself. “And you look at me.”

And he had somehow, through some miracleof magic she didn’t think even Etienne could explain, talked her throughkeeping the gate open, even when her legs tried to fold up under her and shestopped being able to speak through the pain. He had held her up, keeping his voice steady, and she had clung to himas best she could without losing her grasp on the gate, and then when she hadbeen snatched away again—

She knows now what it had cost Etienne tofollow her, to chase her through cities and countries and realms when, at hisstrongest, he found it tiring to go from Shadowed Hills to Toby’s house. The magic burn had been brutal, powerdampeners or not. But he had stayed onher heels every step of the way, he had stayed on his feet when she wascollapsing, he had held her hand when they were close enough and hugged her closein the Snow Kingdoms and told her where they were. Within an hour, he had gone from a strangerto her dad, the man who would doanything in the world to keep her safe.

So maybe it makes sense, now, thatChelsea wants him.

Her mom—her mom is wonderful. Bridget Ames loves her daughter witheverything she has and more than a few things she doesn’t, and Chelsea knowsthis.

Her mom also didn’t understand why herbeautiful baby girl screamed and sobbed every day at dawn, and even if sheknows the reason now, she’ll never understand. Her mom would do anything for her, but shecould never have hung onto Chelsea’s hand and panted out “Welcome toTir-na-Nog,” just so that Chelsea wouldn’t be lost anymore.

But she’s seventeen damn years old, goingon eternity, and she’s going to take some deep breaths and get herself undercontrol rather than running to her parents.

The shaking has started to ease out of herhands, finally, when her door opens—just a crack.

If it was at home—if Chelsea was how shewas, at her old home—she wouldn’t have been able to make out the face of theperson standing there in this darkness. The Summerlands might be comparable to light-polluted California intheir perpetual twilight, but any room meant for sleeping is dark, heavy curtains or else no windowsat all, and Chelsea’s is the same. Now,though, she blinks away the last haze clinging to her lashes and whispers,“Daddy?”

“I��I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says,like he’s been caught doing something wrong. “I only—Chelsea, are you all right?”

And she doesn’t know what gave her away,if he can see the salt tracks on her cheeks or hear the faint rasp in hervoice, or maybe he just knows, butit’s the middle of the day and she can’t lie to him.

“Can I have a hug?” Chelsea breathes, andshe knows she sounds like a child afraid of the dark and doesn’t care.

Chelsea doesn’t care because there’s abeat where Etienne seems taken off-guard, but then he says, “Of course.” And he crosses the room in a handful of quicksteps to hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, next to her bed before hevisibly steels himself and settles down next to her to pull her into a hug, andhe’s nervous and unsure of his welcome, just like he was when he brushed herhair from her face, but his arms are strong and he holds onto her like she’sthe most precious thing he’s ever touched. Chelsea presses her face into his shoulder without thinking twice,wrapping her arms around his neck and breathing in the faint scent of cedarthat clings to him even though he hasn’t had his magic in weeks, and herfather’s grip goes from cautious to firm the moment he’s sure of what shewants, and it’s—

Chelsea finds herself bursting into tearsagain without really knowing why.

Etienne makes a faint noise, like he’s ata loss for what to do, but he’s a damn knight,her father, and he knows how to rally and come through when he’s needed. He comforts differently from her mother—doesn’trub her back or rock back and forth, just holds her tight with one arm and strokesher hair with the other hand, tucking her head under his jaw while she burrowsinto his shoulder. He doesn’t sayanything, either, and somehow it’s perfect.

She’s heard stories of the Fair Folk allher life, but none of them ever mentioned how brutally hard Faerie took change. She’salways been fae enough for that.

She doesn’t know how to explain why she’scrying, can’t put her fingers on the words to say why she’s shaking apart half-wayinto her father’s lap, it’s all too much and too strange and some deep part ofher that’s woken up lately clings pettily to the way things used to be andmutters that change is for mortals. And her father, Etienne who kept ShadowedHills standing when the Duke went mad with change,doesn’t ask her to explain, just holds her and strokes her hair and waits forher to cry herself out.

It takes a while. When Chelsea’s tears finally ebb until she’snot shuddering anymore, she realizes that he’s humming, something sweet and alittle sad in the back of his throat. Not a lullaby, but maybe a ballad. And she keeps her head pressed against hisshoulder, tucks her face into the curve of his throat, and lets the sound of itresonate into her bones while she breathes through the last of the tears.

“Sorry,” Chelsea whispers into her father’sshoulder.

“It’s quite all right,” Etienne says,loosening his grip on her slightly to let her sit away from him. Then he cups her face in his hands, like hedid in Annwn, and wipes away her tears with his thumbs, looking into her eyeswith a worried expression. In the dimlight spilling in through the hallway, his eyes are too shadowed to show thebright penny-copper, but he can probably see it in hers. “Are you well, Chelsea? Did you have a nightmare?”

Chelsea nods, and self-consciousness isstarting to set in, at last, because this might be her father, her Daddy, buthe was also a perfect stranger two months ago. Two months ago, he’d probably never let a teenager sob all over him inhis life.

“I didn’t mean to—sorry,” she says again,weakly, reaching up between Etienne’s hands to rub at her eyes. He lets go of her at once, to give her thespace to collect herself, and Chelsea wishes idly that she wasn’t such ablotchy crier. Her mother cries with thecollected elegance of a princess. Chelsea’s face flushes red in patches and her eyes go bloodshot and shealways manages to look hopelessly frazzled. Being a pureblood just means it doesn’t last as long as it used to.

Etienne’s frown deepens, minutely. “Don’t be. What was your nightmare about?”

“Fire,” Chelsea says, and her voicewavers. She clears her throat and saysagain, more steadily, “Fire. And someother places.”

Etienne reaches out, hesitant, and tucksa wayward lock of hair back from her face, and says, “Do you want something hotto drink?”

The question is so—not what Chelsea expected that she blinks at him for a moment. “Something hot to drink?” she echoes, blank.

He smiles faintly. “Yes. I used to drink tea when I had nightmares as a child. Do you want something hot to drink?” She blinks at him one or two more times forgood measure, against the gritty feeling of having cried too hard for too long,and Etienne adds, “I’m sure that someone is awake in the kitchen, and if not, Iknow where everything is. You like hotchocolate.”

He says the last somewhere between aquestion and a statement. Like he knowsit’s the truth but isn’t sure he’s allowedto know it.

“I—look like a mess,” Chelsea says. “I always look like a mess after I cry.”

Etienne’s smile widens a little, takingon some of that wondering edge she’s getting used to seeing on him. “You get that from me, I’m afraid.”

“You are not an ugly crier.”

“You would lose that bet, my love,” hesays dryly, and stands up from her bed. Thenhe holds out a hand to her, and—

Her father’s hand is warm and Chelseafeels like a kid, standing up next to him. They’re almost of a height—Chelsea is probably due a few more inches,which will put them dead even—but she’s in pajama pants with little frogs onthem and he’s still wearing livery, fine fae cloth that looks expensive evenafter she wept all over it. The stone iscold on her feet before she steps into her slippers. It’s a strange, out-of-place sense memory, ofbeing a little girl holding her mother’s hand after a bad dream, but it’sfamiliar and safe and soothing.

Etienne has callouses on his palm thatcan’t be from anything but a sword, but the strong, sure grip on her hand as heleads her down the hall hits that same sense memory. Chelsea relaxes into it, more easily than shewould have dreamed, into this feeling of being a kid shuffling after her parentand trying not to yawn every time she’s faced with a bright light. Few people are awake at this hour, and thosethat are mostly consist of Etienne’s knights, who smile at her a littleindulgently and give him a polite nod, and then they’re at the kitchen, andEtienne is placing Chelsea on a stool while he boils water in a saucepan.

He doesn’t talk while he does it, andChelsea doesn’t ask any questions. She’stoo busy watching the apparently intricate process of making hot chocolate on astove. It makes some intuitive sense,she guesses. Etienne’s exact age is somethingshe’ll have to ask about someday, but he probably predates Swiss Miss hot cocoapackets and definitely predates the microwave. He can use one—Chelsea saw him with her own eyes,at Tamed Lightning—but apparently for the time being he prefers to meltchocolate into milk the old-fashioned way. There’s a lot more stirring and careful heat management than Chelsea isused to, when it comes to making anything short of a meal.

God, can Etienne cook? He seems reasonably confident, adding a bitof cinnamon and something else that smells strange and exotic to the chocolate,but Chelsea has literally never seen him make anything more complicated thancoffee. The Hobs that usually populatethe kitchen are happy to feed anyone who comes through, but, as a rule, aren’tcharitable to strangers cooking in their space. Etienne is lucky there aren’t any here, or they definitely would havechased him off before he could even turn on the stove.

Chelsea is so absorbed in watching thehypnotic swirl of the hot chocolate that it startles her, when Etienne liftsthe saucepan away and neatly pours some into a mug.

“It’s been a while since I made hot chocolate,”he says, with that trace of rueful humor Chelsea has started to recognize. He sets the blue mug on the table in front ofher stool and it smells sweetly of chocolate and spices, cinnamon and thatother darker spice she can’t quite put her finger on. The porcelain isn’t quite hot enough to burnwhen she wraps her hands around it. “Butthe principle is still simple enough.”

“Just like riding a bike,” she says,staring at the hot chocolate like she’s expecting it to disappear. Etienne makes a noise that she’s starting toknow as his I understood that human idiombut you’ll never make me admit it noise, and she smiles down at her mug. “Daddy,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Etienne says quietly.

Chelsea takes a sip of the hot chocolateand it’s—fucking incredible, actually. Chelsea’s always had a sweet tooth, the kind of kid who stole sugarpackets when her mother’s back was turned, and the hot chocolate is so thickand sweet that it washes away the sour taste of tears with a single swallow. When she lowers the cup, she realizes thatEtienne has the remainder of the hot chocolate in a smaller mug, his hippropped against the counter next to her, not quite selling casual but very nearly hitting the mark on comfortable.

“You were there in my dream,” she says,before she can talk herself out of it. Etienne looks up at her, over the edge of his cup. “I fell through the Snow Kingdoms, and Icould hear your voice. You were tellingme to breathe, and that it would be okay.”

It seems to take Etienne so off-guardthat he’s left fumbling for words. Inthe warm golden light of the kitchen, his eyes are so bright they lookpolished, and when he blinks quickly, twice, something glitters for a moment onhis lashes before he rallies, taking another sip of his hot chocolate as if tofortify himself.

“Chelsea,” he says, voice still quiet, asif they’re still in her room. “I—I hopeyou know that I did not mean to leave you, as a baby. I would have given anything, to be able tospend those years with you, and your mother. You are—you are the greatest gift I could ever have dreamed of, and nowthat I have the option, I intend to do everything in my power to be at yourside for as long as you want me there. For the rest of your life, if you wish.”

“For the rest of forever?” Chelsea asks,and her voice sounds thin and wistful. Forever might be her birthright, now, as a pureblood, but it’s a longtime to the girl who grew up half human.

“Until the last oak and ash crumble, andthe rowan and thorn never grow again,” Etienne swears, and he sounds so seriousthat she thinks it must be a vow. Chelsea nods, and takes a few more long swallows of her hot chocolate.

“This is really good, Daddy,” shemurmurs. “What did you put in it?”

“Cloves,” Etienne says immediately. “I’m afraid my culinary talents are—limited,but no one ever accused me of being inept with spices. I could--” He pauses, and then bulls on like a good knight. “I could teach you how to make it someday, ifyou’d like.”

“Yeah,”Chelsea says. “Yeah, I’d love that.”

#october daye #toby daye #chelsea ames #sir etienne #starlight writes stuff #LITERALLY ALMOST A FULL YEAR AFTER I GOT THIS I THINK???#MAYBE MORE?????#I HAVE DELIVERED THE GOODS #this is actually more of an Aftermath fic than the immediate drama of etienne chasing his daughter across worlds #but also are we...surprised????#ft. my own personal Feelings about etienne #namely that he has a horrible sweet tooth and can't really cook much that doesn't cater to it #and also that he's a blotchy crier and chelsea inherited that #this is just DAD FEELINGS okay? there's nothing else here #i'm sorry bridget you're radical but i just. needed to get some stuff off my chest #bridget is off teaching or some shit she's just Not Here at the moment #also i think chelsea is wrong i think etienne has definitely had teenagers cry on him before #he's just never actually put in effort to be a good person to cry on at any of those times #whereas he freezes up A LITTLE with chelsea but he's a Knight Of Faerie and Will Not Be Cowed and also that's his baby #on today's news etienne is VERY TENSE about making a mistake but also INCREDIBLY DEVOTED to chelsea #and i love it #and someday i will write a fic about bridget seeing her Gentry lover fret over chelsea and...#bridget does not feel Guilty per se but...etienne is a good father and she just KNOWS he would have doted on chelsea as a baby #and there's a part of her that feels something that she won't let be guilt about that #(also i want the luidaeg to add chelsea to her cohort of adoring children that's all bye)#queue deeper than the sea of stars #sroloc--elbisivni #asked and answered

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mangled-dreams · 7 years ago

Text

Sins of the Mother: 5

Chapter 5: Accidents

Previous chapters:

Collection Agreement Terms Truth

Pacing back and forth in the living room Ollie remarks you’ll wear a trace track into the flooring. You apologize and tell him to go clean his teeth before heading to bed pausing just long enough for Ollie to disappear from your sight before pacing again. Trinity hasn’t called or checked-in with you since she left in the morning around six AM.

It’s unlike Trinity to not even shoot you a text or emoji letting you know she’s okay. You’ve tried calling her a few times through out the day and sent her a few messages that she hadn’t returned or answered. It worries you, scares you really!

This isn’t normal behavior and you fear that something bad happened or he had a reaction to her medication. Looking at your phone you groan a little and try calling her again. It rings a few times before going to voicemail.

“Hey, Trin, it’s your favorite hovering sister. I haven’t heard from you at all today and I’ve left you a few messages now, please call me back. Let me know you’re still with me, okay?” You say trying to walk the fine line of casual and overbearing. Hanging up you sighs, pocket your phone, and look at the front door.

Thankfully you haven’t seen Dark since the uncomfortable discussion nearly two months ago, but that doesn’t stop you from worrying about your future. Even as you haven't seen Dark he has left--what your sister calls love notes and gifts. You pretty much disregard them until you're alone.

You’d talked with Trinity as you’d promised, but left out the more… horrifying details of your reality. She’d been distraught as you’d expected, but after reassuring her—and yourself, she calmed down and things returned to relative normality.

You haven’t been worrying to much about Trinity’s behavior as its greatly improved and she seems back to her pervious self. She told you her medication seemed to be helping a lot and in combination with talking with the councilor she’s feeling better than ever. You applaud her, telling her how proud and happy you are for her.

Mid thought your phone rings and you pull it quickly from your pocket answering it would looking at the contact name. “Hello?”

“Hello, is the guardian of Trinity Scarlett available?” A male asks and your heart drops. He sounds too emotionless and precise to be just a random person asking.

“Th-that’s me. I’m her guardian.” You say already blinking back your tears. You just know this is bad, so very bad.

“My name is Officer O’Neil; we need you to come down to St. Rose Memorial Hospital. There’s been an accident.”

Covering your mouth your mind goes blank. He could be telling you the secret to the universe, the meaning to life, or directions to an ancient Aztecan city and you wouldn't hear a damn word. Calling your neighbor, Cassandra Whittle, she agrees to watch Ollie and Fern until you or your father arrives home allowing you to race down to the hospital.

You have no idea what happened but you fear the absolute worse case scenario. When you get to the hospital, and after you quickly put your car in park, you rush into the building making a bee-line for the receptionist’s desk.

“My name is Y/n Scarlett. I’m Trinity Scarlett’s older sister. I have power of attorney for her. Her birthday is…”

The older looking woman behind the desk holds up a hand halting you before you can say Trinity’s birthday. “Miss Scarlett, please, I understand you’re scared but take a few deep breaths. You look ready to fall over.” Her tone is warn and soothing, and you follow her suggestion.

“Please, I need to know if Trinity is alive.” You say looking to the one way locked doors leading to where your sister is.

“I need you to sign in first. I’ll have an orderly take you to her.” She says calmly handing you a book to sign into before paging one of the floor orderlies to come collect you. Within minutes you are escorted into the back, a small slip of paper wrapped securely around your wrist tethering you to Trinity during her stay.

“Oh, God!” Your hands cover you mouth to keep from sobbing out loud. Nothing in your wildest nightmare equate to this horror. Rushing forward you hovers just beside Trinity’s bed your hands hesitating to touch even an inch of her. A respirator tube is shoved down her throat, breathing vital air into her lungs for her. IV lines are jabbed into both arms, red and clear liquid being pumped into her body.

You want to touch her, to feel her skin beneath yours as reassurance she’s there, but nothing in you can make that final touch.

"Miss Scarlett? I'm Officer O'Neil. I need to speak with you."

Holding your phone to your ear you wait. You feel numb all over, yet again. Your sister's recovery will be short of a miracle at this point.

She had bleeding and swelling on her brain, she's suffering from over seven broken bones in various locations, mainly on her right side, she had internal damage to her intestines, and the worst of it all, it was all caused by her so-called best friend Helen who'd been driving under the influence of drugs. To make things worse, Helen didn't get nearly the same injuries as Trinity and had left the scene and ran home.

She'd been caught because it was her car and Trinity had been buckled in to the passenger side front seat. Even when Helen had been caught she tried to blame Trinity. Her parents had brought her into the hospital at the same time Trinity had been brought in.

They tell you if Trinity does survive and manages to wake up that she won't be the same girl. She's suffered too much brain damage to make a complete recovery to the person she'd been. You didn't realized just how much one heart could break in a matter of two days.

"Hello?"

You don't respond instantly. Biting your lip you finally force yourself to speak. "I need you."

"As you wish."

It took everything in you to finally make the call. You guess it finally had to happen when you saw the looks of despair in the eyes of Trinity's care team. No one believes she'll make it.

Within moments Dark arrives in the hospital. With his wide stride it takes only a few seconds for Dark to reach you. He doesn't reach out to touch you but that means very little. The moment he's within rage you rush into his arms.

You haven't been able to reach your father and you need someone to hold you, even if it's from a cold demon like Dark. "She's going to die, Dark. I couldn't protect her." You sob into his chest. Your tears are hot and sting your eyes as they race down your blotchy face. You've been crying so much you didn't think you could shed any more tears and yet here you are.

Dark stands ridged. You surprised him yet again. He never would have thought that you'd call him here to simply have him hold you. He already aware you're father isn't in the hospital; why else would you call upon him to be your support? He'd never given the impression he'd be one to come to for such things.

The death of another human means very little to him unless it's you. Now that he's claimed you he cannot replace you with another Scarlet decedent, and on a much more personal level he's plagued with a kind of affection for you. You're tenacity and ability to over come your fears has solidified his choice in you, and had endeared you to him.

Looking over your head Dark sees your sister lying on the bed, near deaths door. Of course he knows what happened and whose fault it is. Just because he’s chosen his bride doesn’t mean he’ll stop keeping tabs on the others.

In no way will he allow some over sight to steal away his claim. However, right now his claim is sobbing against his chest, your heart crumbling under the decision you’ll have to face sooner or later; whether to continue to allow Trinity to live as she is, on a ventilator and fluid IVs for nourishment, or to pull the plug and allow her the grace of death.

It’s already very obvious by the faces and emotions surrounding Trinity’s room that she’ll end up dying either way. “Why did you call me? Do you wish me to save you sister?” Dark asks. He doesn’t mind being used in such a way if it benefits him, but it would be unlike you to simply cave in.

Lifting your eyes to his, you shake your head. “No, I…” Your words escape you. Dropping your gaze you answer honestly, “I can’t ask you to save her, no matter how much I want too. Trinity wouldn’t want me to do that if it means losing more of my freedoms. I needed someone emotionally detached from the situation.” It feels shitty to admit you don’t want your family around you, but their kind words and added emotions will just cause more pain than you need.

Dark understands. You’re family would do the family thing and try to tell you everything will be okay, but very rarely does someone recover from these kinds of injuries without repercussions. Wrapping his arms around you Dark pulls you to his chest.

“Despite what you may think of me I am sorry you are going through this. I am fully aware how precious your sister is to you.” You melt a little at the sincerity in his tone. He may or may know his words would affect you, but apart of you believes he is actually sincere in his words and actions.

“Thank you.” You whisper burying your face into his chest again. Silently Dark nods his head, wrapping himself around you tightly. He presses a soft kiss to your crown as you cry.

#sins of the mother #darkiplier fanfiction #Darkiplier #reader insert #reader is female #dark x reader #Sad #Sorrow #Loss #You won't like this #Sorry #but not really #Dark is Damien #What'll happen next?#You wont' like it.#Welcome to reality #in the form of fanfiction #its complicated #I'm sorry

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